


Cracked

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:52:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death isn't always a showy affair, a means to an end in the most dramatic way possible.  Sometimes, it's quiet and definite and final.</p>
<p>The link may contain spoilers for the story.  This is a fill for the following prompt on sherlockbbc_fic:  http://tinyurl.com/4jowcaj .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracked

“Sherlock?” John’s laughing voice sounded as if came through miles of fog and cotton wool. “Sherlock?” Concern now. “Where did you go off to, then?”

“Here.” Who, Sherlock wondered, was the owner of that horrible and cracked voice? It sounded as if they smoked two packs a day for over a decade, as if they were trying to be heard through layer upon layer of muffling cloth. “We’re in here.” 

“Sher--oh, God... Is she--Oh, God...” John sounded closer now, but still not useful. 

Sherlock’s arms hurt, his chest hurt...everything felt broken and wrenched from place. He was freezing, and if he was cold then she must be as well. He tugged the afghan from the back of the sofa and laid it over her bare legs, giving in to the odd impulse to pat her knee, comforting her. John was talking to someone now and Sherlock scowled. “Shut up,” he snarled. “She needs quiet!” Her eyes were smiling at him, crinkled at the corners as if she were trying not to laugh aloud. He tugged the afghan a bit higher--he did not want to see the odd dent in her chest, the place where his hands had rested and the fabric pressed inward, over the shallow, cracked spot. Hands, familiar hands, John’s hands, pulled him back and he resisted but for a moment. 

“Sherlock, I’m a doctor, remember? Let me...let me see to her.” Sherlock nodded, quiet, and sat back on his haunches, fingers tangling in the fringe of the afghan, rubbing the fuzzy yarn between thumb and palm, wondering if perhaps his old stuffed dog might help her feel warmer. Surely, Mycroft would be able to lay hands on it, especially if Sherlock made clear how urgent the situation was. Mycroft wouldn’t laugh--he would understand. Her eyes were closed now and he wondered if John did it for her or if, perhaps, she was trying to hide the smile from him. John liked a good joke, Sherlock wanted to tell her, let him see the crow’s feet, the laughter. A door slammed and an unfamiliar voice called out. John replied, sharp and firm, his doctor-self superimposed over his friend-self, his John-ness. 

Sherlock found himself pushed back, not as kindly this time. Buffeted from body to body, he fetched up like driftwood against John, solid as a rock John. He nodded once as John’s hand rested on his back, fingers pressing like a benevolent spider, each fingertip radiating pain and warmth at the same time. “I can’t see her,” Sherlock finally said. “They’re in the way. She...needs to be covered up, John. Where are her shoes?” He broke away, bolting for the privacy of Mrs. Hudson’s rooms. He had only been in there once before, on a whim, but nothing had changed. Pink and muted plaids, serene pictures, a porcelain doll. There, her shoes. Pink and fuzzy but respectable enough. He strode back to the living room and forced his way between two strangers in white and blue, hesitating as he reached for her feet. “John,” he said softly. “I need help.”

John was there, hands over his, taking the slippers. “Let me,” he said softly, gently nudged Sherlock back, out of the way. 

“She’s cold,” he said finally. “I think... I think she needs another blanket.” One of the strangers shot him an odd look and Sherlock bared his teeth in an almost feral mockery of a smile. “She. Is. Cold!”  
  
“They know, Sherlock,” John replied, sounding tired and soft and worn. “Here, let’s put up her cup and saucer, hm?” He pressed something into Sherlock’s hands and smiled thinly. “Just put it in the sink for now, so it doesn’t get broken.”

Sherlock nodded, but did not move until he saw that the slippers had been put on her feet. She was no longer on the floor, instead she was on the gurney the strangers (paramedics, his brain supplied, kicking something free, letting the numbness tingle around the edges as the ice began to crack). Clutching the rose-patterned cup and it’s matching saucer, he took another step back, eyes on John as he murmured with one of the paramedics, signed a piece of paper. “Her husband’s dead,” John was saying. “I think...I think she has a sister in Reading.”

“Bristol,” Sherlock said, his voice still rough but no longer on the edge of shattering. “Her sister moved to Bristol last year. She...she told me about it. At New Year’s.”

John smiled again, this time an expression closer to fondness, pride. “Ah, good. Not deleted.”

“No,” Sherlock breathed as the afghan was laid aside, a thin white sheet tugged upwards. “Not...not for her, no.” The harsh click and jolt of the gurney being lifted, wheels unlocking, made the cracks in the numbness widen, something hot and nauseating seeping through, making his skin crawl and tongue feel thick and sour. “John...”

“I’ll find her number,” John was telling the men. “Tell... tell Doctor Hooper that we’ll be down to do the official identification soon, alright?”

“John,” Sherlock said, voice cracking hard this time. “She’s too cold, damn it! She needs her afghan! It took her a month to make and she needs it over her legs! If she’s too cold, her hip will seize up!” Hands again, Johns and someone else’s pushing him back. A sharp crack, a shattering and grinding noise, and he was sitting on the floor, John soothing him with a promise, a pat on the shoulder, the afghan going onto the gurney with her. It was another breath, then three, and they--she--left. John stood in the doorway, eyes kind and sad and afraid and so much more as he looked at Sherlock. “The tea cup,” Sherlock finally said, eyeing the broken bits of china on the carpet between his outstretched legs. “It’s cracked apart, John.”

“I know.” Sherlock leaned forward and John was there, pulling Sherlock against him, head to chest, arms around one another, breathing rough and thick and voices cracking against one another like rocks in an avalanche. Sherlock let John pull him away, promise him that the heat would be on soon, no one would take away the tea cup from him, let’s just go upstairs, alright? A buzz as they reached the door to their flat and John was talking to someone on the phone. Lestrade, Sherlock knew, just by the tone of John’s voice. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and knew it had been several hours since...since then. John was not far away, his soft voice overlaying someone’s rough breath. Sinus infection, draining in the throat. Lestrade. “I didn’t think he’d take it so hard,” the DI was murmuring. “He’s usually so...blase.”  
  
“Mrs Hudson is...was..special,” John said gently, but Sherlock could hear the difference in his tone, the chiding, the scolding, the crack around the past tense. 

“Still,” another voice. Donovan, Sherlock realized, scowling to himself now. She was not welcome and he wondered just why John had allowed her into their flat. “Still, he’s damn near comatose.”

“He’s had a very difficult day,” John said sharply, the crack complete. “There’s no statement to give, really.” A pause, and Sherlock knew that Donovan must have rolled her eyes or made a face because John’s voice was hard again, military “Thank you for stopping by but if you’ll excuse us, there’s a lot to do before...before her sister gets here.” Door shutting, John sighing, and Sherlock sat up, tugging the Union Jack pillow to his chest. “They came to get a statement. Just protocol,” John said without looking ‘round. “Sherlock...”

“I...” Sherlock swallowed, willing his voice to be smooth, to show no signs of wear. “Do we...do we need to go see Molly?” was all he could ask, though. Couldn’t make the other words come.

“No,” John soothed, joining him on the sofa. “Here, let me take that, alright?” He pried at Sherlock’s fingers gently until they unfurled and he could pluck the hard, cutting thing from his palm. 

“She loved that set,” Sherlock said softly, eyeing the china roses, tinged now with his blood around the cracked edges. “Place it on the mantel, John. Next to...next to the skull.”

John nodded, didn’t hesitate. “Sherlock,” he finally said, “there wasn’t anything to be done. She had been...been gone several hours before you stopped in to see her.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling one more crack, this one in his chest. “I know.”

“Even if one of us had been here, there wasn’t--”

“John,” he said softly. “Just ...come and sit with me.” He closed his eyes and sighed to himself as the familiar, warm weight of his blogger settled close “Help me get warm.”  



End file.
